


Scene Unseen

by Tales2TellU



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tales2TellU/pseuds/Tales2TellU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is happening backstage, offscreen, behind the main action of the story? These are the scenes that we know MUST have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morrigan: Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> This series was first started on December 6th, 2009 on FFN. I've decided to continue any future updates here. All of the Author's Notes from Chapters 1-12 are the original ones from when each was first published. It's a little nostalgic for me. I still remember where the first two chapters were written...a warm, brightly lit café on a cold, rainy night...
> 
>  
> 
> Each chapter (fifteen and counting) will be from the perspective of a secondary character. These scenes will be short. They are intended to fill out the story, to expand upon plots and viewpoints that are only hinted at through dialog and conjecture in the game. The Grey Warden will not necessarily be the same in each chapter, though the origin and choices should (I hope) be evident in the context.
> 
> And, can I just say...how amazing is it that the fanfics for Dragon Age are so wonderful? It seems like every writer who contributes a story here is incredibly talented and a joy to read, and I'm not only saying that because I'm a contributer too. I have several new favorite authors, and they will be watched very soon.
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen the fanart by Aimo on deviantart...go there. Like, now. She made me squee over Alistair before I even knew who he was.

Even the rain smelled of blood and darkness. As the armies of men died under the onslaught of evil that was the Darkspawn, they were observed from afar by forces not entirely benign. An owl that on first glance appeared to be an owl like any other watched the battle from a tall pine. On second glance, however, it could be said that no owl possessed yellow eyes so intelligent and cunning. An accurate enough conjecture.

Morrigan shifted, her talons gripping deeper into the pine bark. Sap oozed out, sticking to the down that covered her feet.

_Well, this is pleasant_ , she thought. She clicked her beak, annoyed. _Wanton slaughter, rain, and pine sap? If there is a more thorough way to provoke my ire, I do not know it._

She would not have minded half so much if there had been anything of real interest going on. It was all hacking and slashing (and the occasional boom from a mage) and, quite often, death. There were fleeting glances of the golden-armored king, and more sightings of the stern-faced and formidable warriors that could only be Grey Wardens. But none of them were from the small band she had met earlier.

They were the only reason she was still sitting here, truth be told. That, and--

_Bored already, girl?_ Flemeth's voice sent an itch down her spine. _Tell me what you have learned._

Morrigan did not bother looking about for her mother. She would not see Flemeth unless she wanted to be seen.

_Battles are idiotic,_ she replied. _This one in particular_.

_Life is a battle,_ Flemeth snapped. _Each one you win is a day you survive. Now tell me; what half-demented battle plan have these heroes of men conjured from their proud minds?_

_The force here is bait_ , Morrigan recited. _They are drawing in the Darkspawn so that the main force may come from behind and trap the horde between the two._

There were many advantages to being an owl, two of which were superior hearing and nearly silent flight. It had been child's play to listen in on battle plans and secrets within the camp.

_They intend to light a beacon in the high tower to signal the second force. It seems the Grey Wardens we met today have been chosen to light it._

_Hmm_ , Flemeth sounded deeply amused. _And tell me, just how many survived this Joining of theirs?_

_Of the four we saw? The fool Alistair was already a Warden, it seems. Out of the others, one survived. The polite one who thanked you._

Flemeth laughed. _Oh ho, of course! You mark that one, girl. It's rare to find someone whom the fates favor so well. Unlike that unfortunate soul there._

_Who, Mother?_

_Who else? That fool in the golden armor._

The fool in question at least knew enough about fighting to avoid getting killed. Nevertheless, he seemed to be surrounded by Grey Wardens who kept back the majority of the Darkspawn.

And yet the horde advanced, and advanced further, and the line of men began to fall and die. The ones that remained would look up toward the tower, desperate for any sign of fire before they were cut down. Even Morrigan, who knew little of war, could see that something had gone wrong.

_Fools indeed_ , Flemeth murmured. _The Darkspawn have infiltrated the tower. The Wardens will have to fight their way to the top._

_Oh, lovely_ , Morrigan said. _Drama._

The battle went on and on, and Morrigan began to grow weary of the endless death and dismemberment. But the tension did not fade, and she could feel Flemeth waiting, poised to strike. The cries of the dying did not help, a chorus of "No" and "Maker" and "Andraste" and worst of all, "Why?!"

And then, erupting into the rainy night like a dragon's breath, the pyre at the top of the tower was lit.

_That's it, then_ , Morrigan said, spreading her wings. _Well done, Wardens. Now let us go home before my very bones are soaked._

A pressure like a great stone forced her wings down and clamped onto her mind. _Wait_.

Morrigan sat, and awaited the inevitable, glorious, and boring victory. But it did not occur. She strained her owl's eyes, searching for the missing forces. And then she saw them, marching...in retreat.

_Drama indeed_ , she murmured. _Their allies have abandoned them. How fare the Wardens in the tower?_

_Well enough for now, though they are tired and wounded. But...ah. The Darkspawn follow them up the tower. They will be overrun in a matter of moments._

There was the roaring of an ogre from the battlefield, and Morrigan turned just in time to see a man in golden armor fly through the air and crumple to the ground. He did not get up again. An older Warden leapt onto the ogre, cutting him down. And then, as he knelt by his dead king, a Hurlock charged, axe swinging, and cut off his head.

_The king is dead_ , said Morrigan, utterly indifferent.

_And so is the senior Warden_ , Flemeth replied, in the manner of a scholar who has just discovered a fact that disproves her finest theory. _The two in the tower are the last of their order._

_So?_

_So, child, this is a Blight. We need Wardens. Go home and prepare for wounded. I will follow._

There were then great gusts of air, such that Morrigan was very nearly blown off her perch. A dragon, ancient and terrible rose from the woods nearby and made for the tower. When her mother had passed overhead and she could take off in safety, Morrigan headed for home.

The rain fell, and the night smelled of blood and darkness.


	2. Alistair: Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those that have already watched and reviewed. Specifically leogrl19, Eryn S, and Toki the Mistress of Snow. I appreciate you!
> 
> And now for everyone's favortie goofball templar...Cullen! (kidding!)
> 
>  
> 
> (Oh, if only I'd known how Cullen's star would rise...)

When he found out that he wasn't dead, he wanted to be. His shoulder burned from arrow wounds, his left arm had popped out of its socket, his skull was fractured (damn that ogre), and every bit of him was covered in large purple bruises.

He had woken up as the witch--Morrigan's mother--stitched up the wound on his shoulder. The pain, the blood still in his eyes, and the gnarled face of his healer, had him convinced that he was...wherever mad men went when they died.

And then the witch had cackled, telling him that he was lucky. And he had asked why.

He stared at the ceiling for some time after that.

When a few days had passed and the wounds began to itch, Alistair found that he had to move, to scratch at them. And once he had moved just a little, it did not end his world to move some more. He looked around.

The hut possessed only a single room, though spacious. It was not as dark and gloomy as he had thought a witch's house would be. The smell was spot-on, though; there were profusions of herbs that, despite their various magical, medicinal, or poisonous properties, smelled mostly of garlic.

He had been placed on a pallet on the floor, due in large part to the fact that he was too tall for the bed, and in even larger part because it was occupied by his fellow Grey Warden.

She slept, still. He watched her breathe, her chest rising in shallow, ragged jumps. In every way, she made him look like a sobbing weakling. Or so Morrigan said. But in this instance, Alistair had to agree with her. He had one arrow wound? His partner had five. He had a fractured skull? She had a broken her collar bone, nose, and several ribs. Oh, he had dislocated his shoulder? She had done that, and had a detached retina. As he watched Morrigan and her mother work their healing magic on her each day, to seemingly little effect, he began to wonder if she would survive.

Andraste's mercy...if she died, he would be the last Grey Warden in Ferelden. Him, against the Blight. Alone.

She couldn't die.

He remembered how she had collapsed in her Joining, and for a brief and terrible moment he had thought her dead, thought that they had lost them all. But Duncan held him back, and soon she began to gasp, and opened her eyes.

She would live this time, too. Right?

Right?

And so when night fell and Morrigan and her mother had gone (he knew not where they slept each night, but it was not in the hut), Alistair picked himself up and stumbled--crawled, really--to the other Warden's bedside.

She was, of course, still asleep. Alistair wondered for a moment at how her face was so relaxed and open in dreaming. When they fought the Darkspawn she had been so fierce, her blood-stained face twisted in anger, shouting a war cry...and yet, still beautiful. Not necessarily beautiful to him, no, she was a beautiful woman of course, but...Maker's breath, she was a fellow Warden!

Alistair shook himself and leaned in close to her ear.

"Hello," he whispered. "Remember me? It's um, it's Alistair. But you probably knew that. So, listen...don't die. It's just you and me left out here in the middle of the Wilds, with that _creepy_ witch and her _creepy_ mother. You can't just leave me alone with them, right? You can't...not alone."

The grief washed over him again, and he felt like he was drowning. He must be, or why would there be saltwater coming out of his eyes?

"Don't leave," he said, and he was blubbering and he knew it, but right then he didn't care. "Don't leave me alone. Everyone else is gone and I can't do this by myself, I can't.

"Look, just stay alive. Please. I'll do whatever you want--you're the boss. Anywhere you go, I'll follow. Not that I mind, you're so much better than me anyway, and you're beautiful, and you're strong...please don't die.

"Please."


	3. Wynne: Birth Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I am posting again...not like I have a math final or anything today! Oh Maker I'm going to fail that test so hard.
> 
> More kind and awesome folk have jumped on the bandwagon. Thanks to Isobel Kelte, Shazzer80, Riiki Tiki Tavi (mongoose!), theos, CaelaLilythes, ., and...as of two minutes ago, Impslave! Toki the Mistress of Snow also gets another shoutout for her review. (I'm afraid you may not cuddle with Ali, for I am selfish and desire all his cuddles for myself. Ha ha!)
> 
> And now for something...completely different.
> 
>  
> 
> (This chapter was thrown completely out of canon after the release of Dragon Age: Asunder. But I like it anyway.)

"So you...mentioned you had a son? What happened to him?"

"I honestly don't know, Alistair. He was...taken from me. Such births are seldom, and there are ways to prevent it, but it does happen. And any child born to a Circle mage belongs to the Chantry."

"I...didn't know. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. It was a long time ago. A very long time ago."

"Couldn't you do something about it?"

"Do what? I was weak from the birthing process and there were...no, there was nothing I could do."

 

* * *

 

The bulky robes of a mage hid her well enough for a few months. But when you are watched constantly for every day of your life, it is only a matter of time until something as suspicious as a pregnancy is noticed. The Templars dragged her to the healer and forced her legs open. After it was done, events followed in an order that had been decided upon centuries before.

She was put in isolation, her staff taken from her. First Enchanter Lannea interrogated her for hours. When did this happen? Where? Who is the father?

It was the last question that was repeated over and over. Was he mage? Templar? Demon? Come, tell us now. If you were forced, it is no fault, no shame of yours. Tell us.

But they received no answer, and they could not beat it from her. To do so at this late stage would be to murder the child. No, she was to be left alone for now. The true punishment would come later.

Months passed, though not many more. She swelled, and was kept apart from the Circle. Each day, after the healer saw that she and the babe were well, Lannea would come and ask her again. Who is the father?

The father...he was a man who had been just as lonely as she. For a few brief hours in the darkness, she had been filled and he had come home. It was enough. When he had left in the early hours, she slept soundly for the first time since she was a child.

Child. Her child grew inside her now, and as it grew bigger her arms drew tighter around herself, around her child. But it was not enough.

Her son came in the middle of the night after a long day of skin-rending, bone-bending labor. She lay gasping for a moment, relieved. And then she heard his first wail and all thoughts of rest were gone. He needed her; she reached for him. But someone else carried him, taking him away.

"No!" She had no strength, no magic left to save him. Armored hands held her back; Lannea stood ready to ward off any arcane arts. "No, please...you can't. You can't!"

Lannea met her gaze and, for just a moment, allowed her pain to show. "I'm sorry, Wynne. You were aware of the consequences. Now you must live with them."

And she did live with them, though she had little choice. She never saw her son, not even in dreams. But she thought of him and, sometimes, she is sure that she heard of him. Rumors of an unruly orphan in the Chantry who sassed the Reverend Mother. Jokes passed on from a cocky Templar-in-training. And then a whisper, a ghost of suspicion that a Templar had fallen in love with a mage.

The young woman was singled out, just as she was. Questions circled round the tower. Who is the father? Wynne looked into the eyes of the mage, who said not a word, and had all the answers she needed.

When word came that a Templar had been executed for impregnating a mage, Wynne retreated to her room for two days.

She was there when the mage gave birth. This time, it was she who held the child, who took it away. As the mother's life slipped away, the babe opened its eyes, mirror images of Wynne's own.

Irving gave the child its mother's surname, Amell. And for years after, it was that name above all others that never failed to draw her attention.

 

* * *

 

Alistair's voice shook her out of her reverie. "Do you think about him?"

Wynne looked for a long moment at the mage in front of them. A newly-made arcane warrior, Amell had donned silver armor and sword, but the glow of magic was unmistakable. As she watched, the Grey Warden unsheathed the sword, studying it, then shrugged and tossed it away, wielding a mage's staff once more. Wynne smiled, unsure if she saw a Templar or mage standing there, and found that it no longer mattered.

"All the time."


	4. Sten: Fighting Women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One month later, and I finally update again. Yep, that's me. Good news is, I was writing over the break (the office where I work is very forgiving), and I've got two chapters ready to go.
> 
> Writing Sten is hard. Especially for a woman like me who would NOT fit in with the dictums of the Qun. But I tried, friends. And I would not have tried so hard if the following people had not encouraged me:
> 
> Caeanne, JimmyHopkinsIsGay, smoolizzy, Jewel Berry, yankumin, mooglething, Felanador, and LysMayumi added Scenes Unseen to their story watch lists, story favorites lists, and (in the case of a certain Mr. Jimmy Hopkins), favorite author's lists. Thanks, you guys. It's always more than a little stunning when someone actually wants to read what I've written and they're not related or indebted to me. You're not, right? None of you are secretly my mom?
> 
> Llandaryn, who did the above and reviewed, has proved to be a thoughtful and much appreciated reader. Now stop those compliments, lest you make my ears blush! Toki the Mistress of Snow made herself heard once again, proving to be a repeat offender-I mean, reviewer! ;) Isobel Kelte, as creepy as it sounds, I've never been so happy to give someone the chills. Hope this next chapter lives up to your expectations.
> 
> And last but never ever least, is impsy. Impsy, who has authored some of my favorite Mass Effect fics of all time. Impsy, who makes me bow in worship whenever I read a chapter of "Missives" or "Sincerely Yours", two of the finest Dragon Age fics on the site. Impsy, who has reviewed almost every story I've written. Impsy, who I...still haven't properly reviewed and favorited. This shall be rectified! As always, impsy, thank you for your awesome.
> 
> If I've missed anyone, I'm sorry. And if I didn't, well...go, me!
> 
> (This is another chapter that, knowing what we know now, I wish I could rewrite. But I will not be George Lucas! Artistic Integrity!)

These women puzzle him. More than that, they frustrate him. Surely they frustrated themselves, behaving as they did. Why did they deny their right, their place, and their honor as women?

He kept his silence as he tried to reason with this--this strangeness. There were other men they met who questioned these women as warriors, and there was more than disapproval in their eyes. There was anger, or hate, or lust, and he did not understand this, either. But many more of the men did not seem to notice, or care. To them, these women who fought were no different from the hounds of war; companions in battle and completely natural on the field.

He did not understand.

It became worse when the elf became one of them. He was male--the way he flaunted the fact at any opportunity made it hard to miss--but the ways in which he behaved were very confusing. The elf was small and slight, and did not face his enemies in the way of a man. And he did not seem content to seek the company of women alone, but lusted after men as well.

This country seemed to be entirely mad. Of that he was now certain. But it was necessary to understand the madness. The _Arishok_ would demand no less.

And so he sought out the eldest, and surely the wisest, of their company. He asked her, plainly, why she fought as if she wanted to be a man.

She frowned. "Don't your women fight? As mages, or warriors?"

"Our women do not wish to be men," he said. The point seemed to be so painfully obvious to him that he wondered if she was ignoring it for good reason or her own whim.

"You think I wish to be a man?"

"You cannot be a man," he spoke slowly, carefully, trying to make her understand. "It will only lead you to frustration."

The mage sighed and pressed her fingers to her temple. "As does this conversation."

Finding no help from the elder, and having no desire to speak to the dark one or the Orlesian (they were the most ridiculous creatures he had met thus far), he next went to the Warden. Strange as she was, she listened more.

He approached just as her companion, the _kabethari_ , was leaving. She held a small rose, her face matching the shade of the bloom. Already he began to suspect that now would not be a time to find her at her most coherent. But she surprised him, as she often did, by turning to look at him with eyes bright and sharp as any blade.

"Sten? There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

This was not what he had intended. But she was the commander here, and he was without _Asala_ , his soul, to challenge that.

"Yes?" He replied.

"What were you doing in that cage?"

Yes, she listened better than most. Better than any other in this strange land. She asked question after question, seeking to understand the path of his thoughts. In this, their natures were similar. Perhaps this is why he tells her of losing _Asala_ , and why the feathers of hope brush against him when he sees determination steal over her features.

 

* * *

 

When _Asala_ rested on his back again (Could it be so? Could it really have happened?), he asked her why she had done it. She is not a man; how could she understand a warrior's pride, a man's pride?

She did not appear hurt by his words. Instead she brought out her own sword and laid it across her lap.

"A true warrior like you doesn't need a sword," she said. "But you didn't seem whole without it."

Her words dove into his memory and plucked out an image of the women of the Qun. Sacred in their role as lifegivers, mothers, the purity of the people, they had seemed content within themselves. They had seemed whole. Just as the Grey Warden before him was. Her very being said, I am.

This country was maddening and strange. Things were not as they ought to be. But the food was sweet and warm, and there was at least one person worthy to be called _kadan._

_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._


	5. Ser Cauthrien: I Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go again. This chapter is short (so short!), but I'm thinking I can get the next one up in a few hours. Here's hoping, right?
> 
> And now for the grand parade of thanks, starting with Story Alerts and Favorite Stories: myspasticmuffin, oodlesofmzness, SylrienAtariel, Donroth, Lothering Rose (why hello again!), unbeautiful nature, and Nevarstar, the feeling I get when I find out so many people actually want to read what I've written is indescribable. Although if pressed, it could be called "warm and squishy". Thanks, you guys.
> 
> Special shout-out to Irritated Mouse, who has put me on Author Alert. Thanks. Am I really that interesting? ;)
> 
> Reviews (and reviewers) hold a special place in my heart, right next to chocolate and puppies. That said, big thanks to impsy, who is most special of all (and you really are as awesome as I say you are). But I'm really excited to have gotten a review from Thessali, whose DA fic "Love in Dreams" is in my favorites. Alistair smut AND touching romance; what could be better? Lothering Rose is another one of my favorites (go read "The Last Beginning" right now) who has graced me with a lovely review. JimmyHopkinsIsGay, I happily accept you adoration and counter with modesty and a blush. I got the skillz, but they ain't paying the billz just yet. SylrienAtariel, you sly minx, you've given my ideas! To be quite honest, this chapter would not have been written if you hadn't requested one for Duncan (still working on that; Duncan is hard to write). Toki the Mistress of Snow, you're continued prescence means I must be doing SOMETHING right (I'm so glad you like Sten, because he doesn't like me). Thank you, all.
> 
>  
> 
> (Sometimes my acknowledgements above chapters got out of hand. This was a particularly egregious example. When the new chapters are up, I won't be continuing this practice because I felt really guilty and annoyed if the Author's Notes had a higher word count than the chapter content.)

I know you, Warden. The way you stand next to your lord is the same manner in which I stand next to mine. We are strong, we are confident, we are unshakable in our beliefs. I know you, Warden, because we are the same.

I hate you for it.

It used to be that the ones I stood with were the heroes, loved by all. They distinguished themselves before you and I were born, Warden. They saved Ferelden not too long ago.

Nothing seems to last. Not youth, not heroism, not even a name. Because my lord is no longer called Hero of the River Dane. He is called teyrn, regent, tyrant, madman. The bitter words fill him up and spill over, until even his allies are wary of coming too close.

I want to help him, to support him. I want to steer him back to the man he was, the man I remember. But my love, my devotion, means nothing to him. I am valuable only as a lieutenant, a soldier. I am below even Arl Howe, another once-great man who has become someone to despise. In battle my skills are unparalleled, but in this arena I have no power, and it makes my heart sick to be so helpless.

I see you, Warden, as you stand next to your man (for we all see that he is yours, body and soul). You gain respect and admiration with each step you take. Every day your allies grow more numerous, and more devoted to you. Hero, they call you. Savior. Champion. Warden.

Your man is devoted to you, too. His eyes follow you, always. But he does not only watch your body. His attention centers on your eyes. He waits for your opinion, your words, your command. And you watch him just as ardently. You are equals.

As the two men watch each other, your lord and mine sizing each other up, their expressions speak of disdain and hate. The arls do the same, their gazes more venomous still. And then you turn your own glare away from my teyrn and meet my eyes.

I know you, Warden, and I hate you. Because the emotion in your eyes can only be pity.


	6. Queen Anora: Do You Care?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updating again; gads but I'm slow.
> 
> Lots of thank-yous to go around this time: Elyssa Brown, HerFoxyness, Vardie, jpgFury, Becky4, brynnevan, Tai DuClau, equivalent exchange, mslaughter, AbbyV, and Llucy all added me to their Favorite Author and/or Author Alert lists, for which I am both extremely grateful and blown away.
> 
> Story Favorite/Story Alerts were done by Snafu1000, Harmakhis, Ferret1, Donroth, brynnevan, Aaliia, Rhia474, kjmisme, Erynnar, Iodelta, Lady Pixel, serenbach, vampireprincess88, ohyesiseeyou, Thief of Time, Fire Fanatic, danigal, jillyfae, and Merithea. Keep going at this rate and there won't be anyone left on to add to the list!
> 
> Oh, my reviewers. Special love to you. Jillyfae, you can babble all you want. Toki the Mistress of Snow, my dear personal stalker, I'm so glad you liked the Cauthrien chapter. Serenbach, let me tell you, Sten is hard for me. Glad you liked him, and the others, just the same. Rhia474, it's an honor that you think so highly of me-I'm truly touched. Kjmisme, I can't be that good; it must have been Sally's Song ;) . Erynnar, thanks for your review; the encouragement of others does amazing things. Snafu1000, wish granted. Updated!
> 
> One last thing, everyone. If you're trying to find really, really good DA fanfics, check out the author Mussimm. Maker's Breath, I was blown away by her story "Fractured Wisdom", and she's just started a new one, "Amaranth". I've fallen in love. Go forth and do likewise!

He is avoiding her eyes, avoiding the truth that she is demanding from him. It does not matter to him that she is Queen of this land and a woman grown; he is her regent, her father, and he is trying to hold the knowledge of death from her the way one holds it from a child.

And she had been a child the first time she learned of death. She had been in her father's study while he opened letters. He had gasped, and she looked up in time to see a parchment with the royal seal drop to the floor. Her father's face was cradled in his hands.

"Rowan," he said. "Rowan is dead."

The Queen of Ferelden, dead. Cailan's mother, dead. Every day after seemed dim. On the journey from Gwaren to Denerim, the skies opened up and filled the roads with mud. Anora wrapped herself in the grey misery, memories of Queen Rowan falling like the rain. With no mother to guide her, it had been the queen who had taught her strength and guile. And now she was gone.

It is Cailan's voice that speaks to her now as she faces her father, the cries he made as a child, all alone in the castle library. She had found him there after the funeral, curled up in a corner.

"Why?" He asked her. "Why?"

She didn't know, and neither did he. They never would.

Cailan had thrown himself into the past. Legends and fables, histories and victories, he loved them all. He trained in war only because it was a requirement for glory in the tales he loved so much. His heart was not set on being a king, not when there was so much more excitement in being a hero.

So Anora had had to lead him into his duties. In his education, in the court, even in the marital bed. But his mind was always far away from the present.

Once, when she had caught a servant girl scurrying out of his bedchamber, Anora had shouted, "You have all the power of Ferelden in the palm of your hand, and you would throw it all away? For what?!"

And Cailan, for once calmer than she, had replied, "Not all."

Anora stilled, and he went on.

"Not enough power to stop death. Not enough power to step out from under the shadow my father cast. Not enough power to sire a child in a barren womb."

She had felt the blood rise in her cheeks at that, and slapped him across the face. He looked up at her, sunlight illuminating his bare form. Like that, he seemed a scion from the Golden City itself.

"Do you care then, Anora? Do you care enough to be jealous? Or do you only care about the power and respect you may lose?

"Would you care if I died?"

His words haunted her now, his serene golden form seeming to stand before her eyes, watching her. _Would you care?_

Oh, yes. She did care. There were times when she even loved him, golden king that he was. How could she not? They had been together since childhood, been married since they had reached adulthood. He had made her Queen of Ferelden, then allowed her to rule in his name. How could she not love him, at least a little?

Her father could not meet her eyes. Cailan could not look away.

Not an easy choice. But could the Queen of Ferelden make any other?

"Did you kill Cailan?"

_Why?_

The ghost of her husband is fading. Now there is only the truth in her father's eyes. Grief. Guilt. Anger. And a determination that supersedes all else. He did it; he killed a king. Killed her husband. And as much as it pains him, he will not let it stand in the way of what he must do.

Well, then. She is her father's daughter, and her own duty is clear now. Anora leaves, throwing up her hands to rid herself of her father's treachery.

Did she care? Yes, she cared for Cailan, and for their country. She will not let Ferelden fall. Not to rebels, not to the Blight. Her country needs a strong ruler, and she is the only one who can do it, who can bring them through this crisis. She is the Queen of Ferelden, and she will rule.

By any means necessary.


	7. Duncan: I Must

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to SylrienAtariel, who said, "I want to see Duncan's thoughts". So I said, "Why the hell not?" Easier said than done. I could not get into fearless leader's head, and I couldn't find a copy of Dragon Age: The Calling anywhere, and the online shipping was taking forever...and then, a breakthrough. While listening to the soundtrack for Moulin Rouge (I know, WTF), one of the songs jumped at me. I made a video for it. And then I sat down and wrote this chapter.
> 
> The video in question? (youtube)/watch?v=5TT3MUbYqZ0. My bro, Anivids, (youtube)/user/AniVids, can do it better. But he wasn't interested, and I was.

This is a secret he can never tell: he hates what he does. Commander of the Grey. It's a noble title, a powerful one, but the title doesn't come close to describing the atrocities he must commit in the name of duty.

The Grey Wardens need recruits? He watches as tournaments are fought in his honor for the right, the privilege, of coming with him. He plucks desperate men off the street, letting them choose between the Wardens and the noose. They always choose the former.

Then he must lie to them, lie by never speaking. The Joining? A ritual. _A ritual that involves drinking darkspawn blood and has a good chance of killing you._ What does it accomplish? Ah, now you can sense the darkspawn. _And you are always hungry, always tired from the nightmares that will plague you, and never able to bear children to make your days lighter._ _You will die before you can ever be called old._ Why can only Grey Wardens kill an Archdemon? Because of the taint. _Because the taint draws in its soul, its corruption, and kills the both of you. Your death will bring everlasting glory to your name._

When Ser Jory resists, he kills him. Because it is his duty. Because he must. He can only apologize, and move on to the next recruit.

The Grey Wardens need support? He visits the court of the king, the son of an old friend. So many of the old friends are dead ones. The king is young and naïve, and his eyes widen when he meets a Grey Warden. The king has gulped down legends all his life as if they were the finest ambrosia, and now he has one standing before him. Support is asked for, and given. The king's own men will help to drive back the Blight.

And now he must go to Ostagar, recruits in tow, and enter into a battle he knows they cannot win. There are too many darkspawn, and too much darkness in the hearts of men. They will not win this day. But he must fight, because the Archdemon may be there, and duty comes first.

The king makes grandiose plans of victory, and something in him stirs. His silence breaks. He warns the king of what is to come. At first it seems that his words fall on deaf ears, but later the king is seen writing a letter, securing his strongbox. So he does one last thing that does not fall under duty to the Grey Wardens. He saves the surviving recruit.

The Grey Wardens need to end a Blight? He saves the heir to the throne from an unwinnable battle, an heir that is also one of the Grey. But he also saves his recruit, his survivor, instead of one of his more seasoned men. There is a look that passes between her and Alistair that could be a beginning. And while Alistair cannot do it alone, and one of the other Wardens might be better suited, there is something in that look that is worth saving.

The Grey Wardens must fight the darkspawn to their dying breath? He will do it. He will fight them, though it rips his heart away to watch his friend's son die. He will fight them, though his men, his brothers, fall beside him. He will fight with no chance of victory, all to kill a small part of the horde.

But his dying breath is one Duncan saves for himself. As a Hurlock charges toward him, axe raised for the fatal blow, Duncan allows his last thoughts to be purely selfish.

_I hate what I've done. But at least I've saved one of your sons, Maric. At least I've saved someone who might love him. At least I killed the ogre that killed Cailan._

The Hurlock is closer, now.

_You poor bastard. You think you have defeated us? We do not end here. Soon you will die at the blade of one stronger than you, stronger than I. Soon your corruption will be ended by a Warden's hand. And you will perish as easily as I will today._

He almost smiles as the axe falls.


	8. Shale: Atrast nal tunsha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh! This would have been up an hour sooner, but my computer was possessed by a thing of evil-possibly broccoli.
> 
> I should be working on my Mass Effect fanfic before my reviewers have me drawn and quartered for taking so long, but...I've really missed SU.
> 
> Reviewers! Lights of my eyes, darlings of my heart! Rhia474, I think we all agree Anora is a frosty b****. That said, I'm still glad you liked the chapter. Toki, I just can't get rid of you! I'm both pleased and disturbed that I have such a persistent reviewer. But I get to hug Duncan first. SylrienAtariel, where's the Quid for my Quo? Just kidding, you know I love you. (PLEASE update Halamshiral!) Moemie, Duncan touches me, too...in a special way, if you get my meaning. ;) And I'm glad you think so highly of SU; I do try, perv that I am. Serenbach, I love that you love the chapters. And Duncan loves you too, no matter how much he hates himself. What Ithacas Mean, I'm not just brilliant. I'm bloody brilliant. Which is just brilliant with an open wound. Kjmisme, thank you not only for reviewing SU, but also watching my video. Maker knows no one else does! XD Zute, I'm glad you're liking it! Here's some more for you to digest.
> 
> We've got some new recruits for Alert/Fav Story: Ladyamesindy, Shenzi123, Castle Anthrax, moemie, harpychick, What Ithacas Mean, faelyn leaf, jenney1979, Kuckuck, Deloris, Risu Yoru, Zute, RainLily13, and blackhawk68. Welcome to the asylum!
> 
> Alert/Fav Author now includes moemie(!), soultakers, TingTong Maccadangdang, kalivon, Elyssa Brown, MoonlightDreams69, Darache, Republic of Gamers, Selene Beau Pre Junior, Bdub, Rinslet, Skattebasse, nillan88, RubyRed1975, Shenzi123, Kitarri, Saga Svanhildr, Jade5233, tregarde, and blackhawk68 (again!), thank you for inflating my engorged ego and putting a smile on my face!
> 
>  
> 
> (This is still one of my favorite chapters.)

She was daughter of the house of Cadash, and no one could force her into any decision. Her brothers taught her to fight at her own insistence. In that time, women who wore armor and fought the darkspawn were frowned upon, especially a noble woman. But she was proud, and she was stubborn, and she did not care.

The day came when she was summoned to fight in the Deep Roads. It was the smell of the place that struck her first; it was as if vomit had been mixed with the blackest oil and then poured over the walls of the cavern. She hated it. The battle-rage filled her, and she cut a swath through the advancing horde of Genlocks.

Later, she received a commendation.

Battle became her life from then on. At Cadash Thaig, she was treated with reverence. Everywhere else, she was treated with respect. And men came calling for her.

Even then, children were cherished. As the darkspawn encroached farther and farther into dwarven lands, more warriors were needed for battle and for their very future. She had no choice but to take a husband, if only for the good of her people.

But she could not be forced into any decision. Suitors came and went, rejected one after the other. She was not looking for a partner, or a mate, or a name to sign next to her own. She did not want love. She wanted her own freedom.

Still, she received all of that, and more.

When her second was killed by the darkspawn, a replacement was sent from Orzammar. He was quiet, strong, patient. To have him at her back was to stand with stone itself. He took her breath away.

They married, and had a son. For the first time, the daughter of house Cadash had something to live for other than the sword. Her life opened up to her in new roads, bright with promise. When her husband held her, she warmed to the core of her being. When her son smiled, her heart lifted and trembled as though it would fly away. She was happy.

The darkspawn came late one night, while most of the Thaig slept. She and her husband awoke to screams.

Her husband, her second, was at her side while they battled against the tide of monsters. As she cut and slashed and hacked her way through the halls of the house of Cadash, something began to close over her heart. For the first time since her youth, she felt fear in the midst of battle. Never for herself, but for her son, only a short distance away, and for her husband, who fought at her back.

In that one moment when fear held her, a Hurlock smashed into her back, the shield crushing her spine and sending her flying. Her husband cried out and moved to defend her, now the only combatant against the horde.

Many darkspawn fell in each swing of his axe, no match against a man of stone who defended the dearest loves of his heart. But even one such as he could not hold out forever. As other warriors swept in to save them, he collapsed to his knees. The dagger that had ended him still remained in his belly. He fell next to his wife, and she screamed and held him as best she could. The battle ended hours later, the dwarves badly depleted but victorious. They found her still sobbing next to him, his body now cold.

When the survivors of Cadash Thaig were taken to Orzammar, she was among them. Her husband and son were not.

There had been too many darkspawn. She had become afraid. And now she was broken, body and soul. Her life, which had seemed so bright before, now belonged to the darkness of the Deep Trenches. Had she been able to walk again, she would have served the Legion of the Dead. It would have been the only place fit for her. But now she had nothing.

It was then that she met Caridin, a Paragon of her people.

He had followed her story with great interest, he said. After what had happened, what did she wish for herself?

Nothing, she said. It was truth enough.

Not even vengeance against those who killed your family? Caridin asked. Not even a chance to battle the darkspawn again?

She listened to his proposal. Imagined herself as a being of stone, forever guarding her people against the horrors she had endured. Protecting herself against the pain of mortality.

When he asked her if she would like to join him, she volunteered. Later, he told her that she is the first woman to do so.

Days later, he carried her deep into the stone, to his forge a mile away from the city. She wore only a cloak, and her legs dangled uselessly over Caridin's arms. When they reached the anvil, he removed her cloak.

She was naked and helpless as he laid her within a massive block of stone. Soon he would switch to metal and steel, but for now she could imagine that she was returning to the stone from whence she came. It was peaceful.

Caridin hesitated. He said, I do not want to force this upon you. Is this what you want?

But she was Shayle of the house of Cadash, and no decision could ever be forced upon her.

She said yes.

As the molten lyrium poured over her, she screamed in pain for the last time.


	9. Fenris: Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? Did you forget I existed? You did, didn't you. It's okay. I forgot I existed, too.
> 
> First off, some good news. I managed to find a job! In this economy! So as thrilled as I am to be writing again, there still won't be a regular update schedule. But that's okay, because now we all have DRAGON AGE 2 to keep us company! Hence this chapter.
> 
> Now for the standard acknowledgements...to my oft-ignored and much-maligned reviews, I say this: Gods Bless Your Face, You Sweet Thing You. Jillyfae, would you believe that I didn't like Shale at first? But she, like Sten, grew on me like a rash. You know, the kind not easily removed by doctors. I should get that looked at. Dragon Age Fanatic, I'm so glad we found each other again! Let us never part, my darling! Serenbach, I actually cried while writing the last chapter. DA is just full of Nightmare Fuel and Tearjerkers, isn't it? Terenbas, vent with me! Why oh why don't we find out who Wynne's son is? Ah well, at least we get a bit more Amell backstory in DA2. Toki the Mistress of Snow, I've bolded your name now. No lurking for you. People expect to see you on here. Else it'll be like, "Hey where's that one chick she highlighted last time? What's up with that?" You're caught now, Mistress of Stalking! XD And Sathaeri! Man, I completely forgot about Kylon. But I love that guy! He shall be added to The List.
> 
> Favorite Story/Story Alert people, try as you might to remain anonymous, I will out you here! Danitza81, Lira Tabris, Zevgirl, Dissolution, Dragon Age Fanatic, B5anon, Sathaeri, Sophieahil, Jinx1983, Tsedby, and Agent TLR.
> 
> And don't forget those special people who think I am THE GREATEST WRITER OF ALL TIME...Merilsell, Roughdozer, DaisyLilac, The Odd Little Turtle (YAY NOW I AM COMPLETE!), Noelle1230, GreyhawkGal, Commander Alenko (KAIDAN, I STILL LOVE YOU!), Jillyfae (w00t!), Apathyisdeath, Fadewalker93, Endymion Blue, DCMinx, Aya001, Talieamarks, Rachel Nielson, Miyabilicious, and Allerti. Okay, so they might not think I'm the greatest, but some of my favorite fanfic writers follow me! How cool is that?
> 
> To fans old and new, I hope you like this one. Find Thrills in Thedas, my friends!

It all happened so much faster, so much better, than he'd expected.

She'd been listening, and all he could do was complain. It made him sick, wallowing in the past the way he did. Surely she was sick of it as well. But her expression betrayed no resentment, no disgust. Only compassion. Only love.

No. Not love. Not for him. Not from a mage like her. But he wished it was. Hungered for it even more than revenge. The curved lines of her body, her bright eyes, her silky hair...it all threatened to undo him. Best to leave now, then. Why torment himself further? Why let himself be brought low by a mage?

But as he turned to go, she spoke words soft and insistent. "You don't need to leave, Fenris..." She touched his arm, and the shock of her touch and the tingle of magic finally broke him.

He reacted. The lyrium in his skin flared, and he forced her against the wall. Do not tempt me further. Do not tease me with what I cannot have.

Her eyes went wide, shocked, and Fenris pulled back. Had he hurt her? He hadn't meant to. And she was so close now, so warm, her breath ghosting past his cheek.

For a flash of an instant he saw her eyes harden into a decision, and then she rushed forward, her lips crashing against his. He met her fierceness with his own intensity, and they whirled, with him now against the wall and her pushing against him. She was so soft, and he drowned in her scent, the smell of cold rain and spices.

Later, he is not sure how they reached her room, her bed. But they were there, and her mage robes slid off of her so easily, like a whisper. She was everything he'd imagined, and more. He lingered, smelling her, tracing the folds of her limbs, taking the dark tip of her right breast into his mouth.

Hawke made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh. She pulled him close, her fingers twisting in his hair. As he entered her, he felt like he was finally home, finally safe, and he closed his eyes...

_"Get up, knife-ear! Entertain me!" Hadrianna kicks him, sets his bedroll aflame. He is so tired. "Now!" Please, just stop, just stop..._

No. That wasn't real. Just a memory of that bitch, dredged up by the events of the day. She didn't matter anymore. What mattered was Hawke's lips pressing against his own, pulling his lower lip between her teeth...

_"There is no need to fear, my friends. This little wolf does not bite. Not unless I command it. Fill the glasses, elf, and do not spill the wine..."_

Denarius. The master. Fenris could not control the hate that filled him then, a seething black bile like darkspawn taint. His body stilled, trying to hold back, to put it aside.

"Fenris."

Her voice called him back, picked him up out of the ugliness and dropped him into her arms. She touched him lightly, her gaze shifting from his tattoos to his face. Even then, she was thinking of him, of his pain.

The words were forming on her lips, inevitable. _Are you all right?_ He didn't want to hear them, her concern in the midst of passion. Nothing should mar this for her. Nothing should make her feel uncomfortable or unhappy in this moment. So he kissed her, hard, and stole the words away.

Everything moved faster then. The room grew hotter. Their own sounds and sighs were timed to the creaking of the bed, harmonious. Music built in his head, a drum beat, and he realized that he was hearing his own heart.

Hawke's eyes were half-lidded, focused upon his own. He was drugging her into a stupor. But her hands found his, and their fingers intertwined, and for just a moment the drum beat stopped.

He was in love with her.

This startled him, and adrenaline slammed through him, and he thrust. Deep. Hard. Hawke's back arched, and the sound she made was primal, drawing him down, pulling him in further, further.

It was in that one starlit moment when he lost himself that the memories came. Perhaps they were always there, and with his mind gone he could see them clearly.

And he does see, he sees everything, and he had his life back. Hawke had given him the faces of his family, his childhood, every moment he cherished.

But then his mind returned. And the memories were ripped away. Nothing remained.

Hawke collapsed with a sigh and a smile, her eyes closed. She drifted into sleep, and didn't see the horror and the pain dawning on his face.

He loves this woman. Against all sense, all hate, he loves this mage with her bright eyes and gentle heart. But he can never be with her. He knows this now. If they were together, he would want to spend every moment touching her, kissing her, making love to her. And doing that would mean losing himself every single day.

Fenris knew himself. The pain would be too much, and he would lash out at her. They would be miserable. Tormented.

He had to let her go.

When he had gotten out of bed and dressed, he sat in a chair by the fire and put his face into his hands. He didn’t make a sound. If she woke up, he didn’t want her to know he cried.

_Why? Why couldn't I have just one thing? Just one thing that made me happy in this life? Just her._

_Only her._


	10. Sebastian: Mea Culpa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? And to those who ask, "Why, Eilam? Why are you never here with another awesome chapter when we need it?" I am afraid that I can only reply, "It's complicated." So, let's move on, shall we?
> 
> Story Alerts/Favorites now include Debb, DTwirler, BurtieBee, Phygmalion, Ygrain33, Zeeji, LadyLefaye, MrsArainai, maidenshadow, Soultakers, moxious, Syreene, tiramisoup, Sabaku no Koori, and IceYousha. Welcome, now you belong! One of us, one of us!
> 
> And some new folk for Author Alert/Favorite as well! Enaid Aderyn, BurtieBee, MrsArainai, tiramisoup, Amratis, and kasoogi, I applaud you for your good taste!
> 
> I'm sure most of my reviewers have received replies by now, but just in case, they shall receive another one! IN VERSE! Hot Dog! Ahem. To BurtieBee, who made a squee, I'm glad to entertain thee. Many thanks Phygmalion, your advice will keep me writing on. Rednightmare, you're so charming, though your name is quite alarming. Sweet compliments are nice to see, from dear Ygrain33 (And joy, there are five for me!). To Zeeji who has just discovered, I'm glad we found one another. Amratis, I heard your plea, more chapters here for you to see. For Sathaeri, who's never cheesy, such a fan makes writing easy. Only haiku ..snow/the favored stalker. Merithea, fan sublime, writer's block meant only nine. Murphy Annen Thiamine, am I pastry so supreme? (Zevran's such a sexy thing!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next one. Sebastian is so angsty and conflicted, but he prays. A lot. Probably asking for patience when dealing with Silly!Hawke. He is a surprisingly interesting character!

The pew had no cushion. He could feel every knot in the wood, every grain worn smooth by the presence of the devoted. It hurt. But he did not move, head bowed and hands clasped, sinking deeper into his prayer, into the Chant. He must build his resistance, strengthen his guard.

 

_Blessed are they who stand before_

_the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the Maker's will is written._

 

"Sebastian?"

He threw up his head, torn from serenity and flung directly into temptation. One of her hips rose higher than the other, curving her form even more than it was. The thin robes of a mage did little to hide the sweetness of her body. Hawke stood in front of him, smiling.

 

_Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._

_In my arms lies Eternity._

 

"I startled you," she said. "My apologies."

He shifted, determined to keep his eyes upon her face. "No need, Hawke. I was only meditating."

Now her smile turned into a grin. It was her trouble-making grin. "And what, pray tell, has you meditating so deeply? Have you been...sinning?" She leaned close to him; he could smell the perfume she used.

 

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide me through the blackest nights_

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_

_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

 

"N-no..." Maker help him, he was blushing.

She leaned away, still smiling. "That did not sound truthful to my ear, dear Prince. I shall leave you to your prayer, then. You sound in sore need of it."

And then she left, as quickly as she had come. Sebastian buried his face in his hands. Only a moment, and he was undone. All it had taken was a smile, a scent, and his resistance had fallen away.

 

_These truths the Maker has revealed to me:_

_As there is but one world,_

_One life, one death, there is_

_But one god, and He is our Maker._

_They are sinners, who have given their love_

_To false gods._

 

But already she has his love, his lust, his soul. Already the peace of the Maker is lost in her smile and bright eyes. Every day he prays, and every day he loses himself.

The days when he followed her into battle were better, and worse. He was distracted from her by the scent of death, the ozone flavor of magic and blood, the cries of men and women as they were felled by his arrows. But then he glanced aside, and saw Hawke's face. Her sweat rolled along her body, glistening in the magic from her staff. She would smile, and laugh, spinning and turning and relishing in being who she is, never having to hide in the glaring light of battle. She took his breath away.

It was in such times that he felt the prince he had once been rising within him. How easy it had been, to smile at a lovely woman like Hawke and expect to bed her the same evening. How pleasurable it would be to do the same thing now.

Sebastian stood and made his excuses, heading directly for the cell he called his own. His thoughts could not be quelled. If he were to resist the greater temptation, then he must give in to the lesser one now.

 

_Then the Maker said:_

_To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:_

_In your heart shall burn_

_An unquenchable flame_

_All-consuming, and never satisfied._

 

When the door to his cell slammed shut behind him, he collapsed onto the bed with a groan, his hands going to his belt. He turned the belt buckle, Andraste's face, away from him as he dropped the belt to the floor. Then Sebastian kept his eyes shut, seeing Hawke in his mind as his hand began to work.

 

_With passion'd breath does the darkness creep._

_It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep._

 

How easy it would be, to slip those mage's robes from her shoulders. How soft her skin would feel as he held her close. Her breath would whisper past his ear, command him...

 

_O Creator, see me kneel:_

_For I walk only where You would bid me_

_Stand only in places You have blessed_

_Sing only the words You place in my heart._

 

He could feel her lips now pressing against his own, sucking at his tongue. It was harder to breathe.

 

_My Maker, know my heart_

_Take from me a life of sorrow_

_Lift me from a world of pain_

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._

Faster. Faster. His breath came in gasps.

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_

_And comfort is only Yours to give._

 

 

Her name exploded out of him, a gasp and a prayer both from and against the evils of the world.

"Hawke!"

Sebastian lay panting, the flush receding from his cheeks. He ran a hand through his hair, and opened his eyes.

A moment of clarity had come to him in the blinding emptiness of climax. He had cast Hawke as the temptress, a demon of desire sent to punish him. And though he could not deny that her flirtations pushed him over the edge time and again, she was also the light that drew him back. He was supposed to see Andraste as a savior, but it was Hawke's face that made him want to try harder, her deeds that inspired him to be better. Truly, his shame did not come from denying the commands of Andraste, but from the fear of disappointing the woman he had come to respect and love.

It would be easy to act the prince again and seduce Hawke into his bed. She would not be adverse to it, he was sure. But Hawke, for all her wild abandon, had always chosen the harder path. The right path. So would he.

He chuckled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and bowing his head in prayer.

 

_Many are those who wander in sin,_

_Despairing that they are lost forever,_

_But the one who repents, who has faith_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

_And boasts not, nor gloats_

_Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight_

_In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know_

_The peace of the Maker's benediction._

_The Light shall lead her safely_

_Through the paths of this world, and into the next._

_For she who trust in the Maker, fire is her water._

_As the moth sees light and goes through flame,_

_She should see fire and go towards Light._

 

Sebastian stood, smiling. He pulled up his pants, retrieved his belt, and went back out into the life of the Chantry. If he hurried, he would be in time for the evening prayer.

 

_Though stung with a hundred arrows,_

_Though suffering from ailments both great and small,_

_His Heart was strong, and he moved on._


	11. Sergeant Kylon: Ignoramus Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my squishy pigeons! Back again with Sergeant Kylon, so everyone send a thank-you to Sathaeri if you like this chapter.
> 
> Converts! Story Alerts/Favorites now welcomes MeltIntoWords, Alissa Cousland, Panda Jinx, Sasse1892, HollyIsMyName, and Lady Epicness.
> 
> And Author Alerts/Favorites has added Kodama91, SgtGinger, allerti, DragonEffectIII, ilmiopassato(squeee!), Lady Epicness again, and ..snow (my numbah one stalker!).
> 
> The biggest thanks go to the reviewers, old and new. You guys get me writing again after months on hiatus. Murphy Annen Thiamine, my cinnamon bun! I'll always come back...eventually. Zute, Hawke IS both and Andraste and a desire demon. It explains everything. Toki, snow mistress, darling, why do they always make the sexy Scottish ones chaste? And Zeeji, thank you! Every verse of the Chant was found on the Dragon Age Wiki. Bless their souls.
> 
> For Sathaeri, who thought it would be funny. And it is.

The first time it happened, he chalked it up to bad luck. He was understaffed anyway, so even an idiot guard was better than no guard at all. He let it pass, and put young Charles Fitzgerald--Chucks, to his friends--in a uniform.

But then Bann Hubert came to see him the next day, dragging young Fitzhubert behind him and asking for a favor.

It was all downhill from there.

Six months later Kylon was sitting at his desk, staring at a duty roster full of Fitz and wondering how many times he could bang his head on said desk before brain damage set in.

He started calling them The Bastards.

And when Willy Fitzhenry accidentally broke into the wrong house to retrieve a suspect, and Rob Fitzwilliam was discovered to have written the arrest warrant for "being a smartass", and the suspect was found sharing a pint with Tom Fitzthomas...

Well, after that incident, he began calling them The Ignoramus Bastards.

It was amazing, truly amazing, how many times they could get an order wrong before they discovered the correct action. Kylon had once reminded Chucks to take care of his armor, and the lad had dumped it in the infirmary. Arnie Fitzpatrick was told to stop spitting on the ground and had taken to using his helmet as a spittoon. And Rob could never be persuaded--no matter how often you yelled or how hard you smacked him--that someone "acting like a smartass" was not a punishable offence.

At least there was a method to their investigative work, although the method was very questionable itself.

Upon receiving their orders to search for and bring in whatever criminal was wanted that day, the lot of them would stroll over to the Pearl and conduct a very intensive search that lasted for hours, if not the whole day. They justified this with the one time that Willy had accidentally pinched the bottom of their wanted man, who was in disguise and trying to lay low at the Pearl.

It should be mentioned that Sergeant Kylon's desk had a deep denting in it, about the same size and shape of the Sergeant's forehead.

So when the wanted poster came from the palace asking for Grey Wardens, alive or dead--specifically the two depicted in rough sketches on the poster--the Sergeant settled his forehead into its usual place on the desk and prepared for a good round of thunking.

Just how, exactly, did the idiots in charge expect him to apprehend two Grey Wardens when he had even bigger idiots working for him? Still, to show willing he sent a request for more men. Preferably ones with more experience, or ones that at least knew how to hold a sword properly.

To his surprise, Arl Howe sent a dozen men three days later. A week after that, at least half of them were in lockup.

"Maker, why?" He asked the market district at large. "Why am I plagued with both the stupidest and most corrupt bastards in all of Thedas? What did I do wrong? Trespass on the Black City? Set the torch to Andraste's pyre? Cheat at cards?"

"Sergeant--” Someone tapped at his shoulder.

He whirled. "WHAT?"

A man and woman, both kitted out in heavy armor and weapons of finer make than he'd ever seen, and a certain look in their eyes that meant that they knew how to kill. They matched their wanted poster quite well, actually. But behind them stood a mage, likely an apostate with that getup, and a pretty redhead with a longbow as tall as she was. The poster had failed to mention that.

_Ah well_ , he thought, _at least they aren't bastards_.

Of course, it was a little later, at the coronation in fact, before Sergeant Kylon learned that that day he had met Alistair FitzTherin, Grey Warden and bastard son of the king.

Well, at least he wasn't an _idiot_ bastard.


	12. Ser Cullen: Gravitas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! And I am romanced at last by the dorky templar so many of us fell in love with all those years ago. There will be Inquisition fics, but this one is a what-if piece from when Cullen still lived in Ferelden's Circle...
> 
>  
> 
> (All caught up now. Each chapter after this one will be new.)

I am still unused to the weight of my armor. Though the training master has made us wear bars of iron for the past year, that we might build up our strength, I admit that I did not expect to be held down so by the plate mail. Each step is an effort, the time to walk a corridor an eternity. I imagine myself to be as like the dwarven golems I have read about. Cast in stone, immortal, and impervious.

If only that were so. Then I might feel at my ease amongst the mages.

How strange, to feel as if made of stone but afraid of even the smallest mage-child. Upon taking my first watch in the library, I felt my eyes darting everywhere, afraid to leave a single mage unguarded for even a moment. Steinar laughed when he came to relieve me and found me stiff-backed and glaring from 'neath my helm.

"Cullen," he said, "your face would be enough to drive away any abomination!"

I shrugged, a difficult thing with the weight and cumbersome angles of the plates. And as I left the library, I beheld a mage child making her first flame.

She cupped it in her hands as though it were a living creature, both fragile and very dear. Her teacher patted her shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement, and the child looked up, staring right into my own eyes.

"Look, Ser Cullen!" She said. "Look at me! Look what I can do!"

Such a small child. She could not have been older than ten. It had not been so long ago that I had said the very same to my own mother, looking for approval and hope in her face. I had wanted magic very badly, then. I had wanted her attention, to see her smile.

How fortunate that I had not been cursed with such.

I think often of that child's small flame. How she smiled as she held it. It was flames that devoured the prophet Andraste, and the Sword of Mercy that saved her from them. The same sword inscribed upon my armor. My armor, which carries the weight of stone.

When the alarm was sounded a week later, I was in bed, taking my rest. It was Steinar who shook me awake, who pushed my armor, shield, and sword into my hands. Who uttered the word that was being screamed down every corridor.

I do not remember the buckling and tying of my armor. Nor do I recall pulling my sword free of its sheath. Yet I was fully armed and armored when I charged to the apprentice's dormitory with my fellows. We moved against a tide of young mages, running from the horror in their chambers. Behind us surged the enchanters, teachers and guardians seeking to protect their wards. All was chaos as people were pushed to and fro, a sea of fear and bodies.

Somehow, I was deposited at the forefront of the melee, directly before the abomination itself.

How small it was! Despite the curdled flesh and jaundiced eyes, its size left no mistake. One of the children had been tempted by a demon, and had fallen sway to its will.

Heat emanated from it in waves, and each choking breath I took filled me with wrath. Surely this could be nothing but an abomination of a demon of rage.

I raised my shield, and pointed my sword at the creature. "Stand down, demon!" I said.

The abomination raised its hand, a ring of fire surrounding its form. And then, as the flames rose higher, it began to laugh. A child's laugh still, despite the twisting of its body and mind.

"Look, templar!" It said, eyes narrowing with malice and delight. "Look at me! Look at what I can do!"

Fire swirled around it, and it charged toward me, body hunched, arms swinging. Ready to claw and rend and tear.

Behind me, the mages screamed.

I raised my sword, and it was so heavy. An eon passed as I swung it down, carving into the abomination's side. Lifting my shield seemed as if I lifted a mountain, the thing's claws scraping against the metal. A shove with that same shield required the energy to move an ogre. The abomination stumbled back, lost its footing. Fell. The point of my sword went deep through one yellowed eye, and it lay still.

When the pandemonium had been sorted out, my fellow knights found me kneeling beside the body, cradling it in my arms. They took me away from it, and sat me down, and the knight-commander told me that I would be present at Harrowings from now on. That I had earned it.

"What was the child's name?" I asked.

The knight-commander raised his brows. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

He told me.

Now, I write this, my polished armor, shield, and sword hanging by the fire. And I think, over and over, of a tiny child who loved fire, who made friends with a demon who loved it as well. A child just like every other mage, who live on my very doorstep and look upon me and my fellows with mistrust and hate. A child who said what every mage yearns to say, inviting our scrutiny, as they embrace their power and their curse.

_Look. Look at me. Look what I can do._


	13. Krem: The Chief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Krem met The Iron Bull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, fresh content. Thank you to everyone now reading, and those who've always been there. We shout into the void not to hear ourselves, but to be heard.

     It was a stupid mistake. He was on the run, and they’d only known him as a man in the army. Even if they knew he was a woman (but he wasn’t, not really), they wouldn’t look for one first. In their heads, they still thought of him as Krem. So he could have worn a dress and cloak, and maybe he would have gotten away.

     But he couldn’t do it. After years of finally wearing the clothes and armor he wanted to wear, of being the man he wanted to be...he couldn’t pretend to be a woman anymore. Couldn’t force himself to wear a woman’s clothes again. When he wore them, he felt wrong and ashamed. A freak.

     So he’d stayed a man, and tried to keep his head down as he ran. It didn’t work. Now this tribune and his men had his arms, had forced him to the floor on his knees.

     “Think you can just desert the Imperial army, girl?” The tribune said. “Do you think you can just leave after shaming us so?”

     The man grabbed Krem’s hair and yanked, forcing his head up. Krem looked him in the eye, and the coldness, the disgust he saw there, scared him more than any of the other men there.

     “We will make an example of you,” said the tribune.

     Krem’s imagination went to a thousand terrible places in seconds. They had the time and authority to do whatever they wanted to him.

     The tribune’s hand went to his belt, and for one horrific second, all Krem could think was, _please go for the sword. Please please please go for the sword._

     He never found out what his fate would have been, because at that moment the door to the tavern slammed open and a hulking, horned monster stepped inside.

     Everyone in the tavern seemed to forget how to move. Or breathe. A qunari. In a Tevinter tavern. It just didn’t seem possible. They were on the edge of the empire, true, but...gods, this one was _huge_ , even for an oxman. He wore no uniform or vitaar, only a large pair of pants made from tattered sailcloth, a wide leather belt, and shoes.

     The qunari looked around, taking in the soldiers holding Krem to the floor and the barman trying desperately to look the other way. And then the Qunari looked the tribune straight in the eye and said, “Stop that, and let the kid go.”

     His voice was deep, and brooked no argument. Krem felt hope come alive again in his chest, driving back the fear. Gods knew why the qunari would even care, but if he got out of this...

     A soldier to his right suddenly swung his arm back, his eyes afraid and angry. Krem had time to note that yes, that was a flail in his hands and, my, didn’t those spikes on it look sharp, and oh gods he was going to die.

     But the oxman was on the move, faster than any of them expected. One moment Krem was on his knees, and the next he was on his back. The qunari knelt over him, and for a brief half-second they stared at each other. Then the flail finished its arc and the side of the qunari’s face exploded with blood.

     Krem’s training took over then. The soldier on his left was staring, dumbfounded. So Krem disarmed him and ran him through with his own sword.

     The rest of the fight was a blur of broken furniture and blood and flashes of metal. At some point he realized the qunari wasn’t dead. Somehow the bastard was up and fighting, cutting men in half with an axe. And then the fight was over, the soldiers and tribune dead. He and the qunari stood there, breathing heavily and staring at each other.

     “Thanks for the help,” Krem said in Tevene.

     “Aw, shit,” the qunari grumbled in Common. “You’re a Vint?” He set the head of the axe on the ground and leaned on its haft. “What did they want with you anyway, Vint?”

     “I left the army when they found out I was passing as a man,” Krem replied, switching to Common as well. He dropped the sword he’d used, letting it clatter on the tavern floor. “They didn’t seem to like that.”

     “You’re not a man?” Said the qunari. “You sure as shit fight like one.”

     It felt wonderful to hear something like that, even from a qunari. Krem smiled a bit, then tried to shake it off. “We...we better get that eye looked at. Seems pretty bad.”

     “I’ve got a healer in my crew. He’ll take a look at it.” His good eye fixed Krem in a piercing stare. “Name’s The Iron Bull, by the way. I run a merc outfit called the Bull’s Chargers. We could use a fighter like you, kid.”

     “You offering me a job?”

     “I might be. If you’re interested.”

     Krem shook his head, laughed. “You stupid ass, you lose an eye helping me out and now you’re offering me a job? Why would you even do something like that? You don’t even know me.”

     The Iron Bull shrugged, his huge shoulders rising and falling like the fates of nations. “I don’t like fights where I drink. Makes things too complicated. You interested or not?”

     He didn’t have anywhere else to go, really. All of his family was in Tevinter, and didn’t want to see him again anyway. He could fight, or he could sew, but there weren’t too many out there who would hire a man in a woman’s body, and a Tevinter deserter to boot.

     And he didn’t want to lie about who he was. Not again. Not ever.

     So he stuck out his hand and said, “Cremisius Aclassi. You’ve seen what I can do. I’m in, if you’ll have me.”

     The Bull shook his hand and grinned. “Then let’s get out of here, Krem. Before I fall over.”

     “Whatever you say, Chief.”

 


	14. Solas: In Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small snippet of the Bad Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stuck in Solavellan hell. Save me.

His mind was filled with whispers, and his ears were full of Cassandra’s chant. She murmured its words at all hours of the day and night. (Was there a day and a night anymore? He did not think so.)

Sometimes it was soothing, listening to the rhythm of the words instead of the screams outside of their cells. But other times it grated on him, the unending Chant from the Seeker’s broken lips. He never asked her to stop, however. That would have been cruel. The words seemed to be the only tenuous thread tying Cassandra to sanity.

They beat her harder for it when she was on the rack. Solas had seen it, once, and was certain it happened every time thereafter. But at least they did not kill her. He was grateful for the company.

Occasionally the chanting would falter, and Cassandra would whisper, “Solas? Are you there?”

“Yes, Seeker,” he would reply. “I am still here.”

Meaning that he had not died. That he had not gone mad, here in the cells of Redcliff Castle. But it would not be long, now.

Solas flexed his hands, turning them this way and that in the darkness of the cell. The red glow beneath the skin was brighter now, and beat with the steady pulse of his own blood. The pain grew stronger by the day, shards close to breaking through the skin. He felt warm, feverish, all the time.

No. It would not be long.

He remembered the first time he had seen red lyrium, how curiosity had been overcome by horror. They had tried to seal it away, to forget it had ever existed... _No one must speak of this. No one must know._

The irony that this would be what killed him...he wanted to laugh, but could not. Fen’harel, the immortal Dread Wolf, breaker of chains, locked away and corrupted by demons and _shemlen_.

It was almost freeing, in a way. To know that this was his last, and greatest, mistake. That it did not matter what he did from this point forward, because the world was past the point of repair. There was nothing he could do to make this right, and thus he might as well do nothing.

Truly, it was almost relaxing to be overcome by despair.

But...if only. If only he had been more patient upon waking, and unlocked the orb himself. If only he had been strong enough to do so. If only he had not had his agents give the orb to the Elder One. If only he had recovered it more quickly, if only he’d been more forthcoming, if only, if only...

...if only he could have saved the Herald.

His hands were clenched into tight fists, and he realized that blood was welling up beneath his nails.

Solas forced himself to relax, forced his breath to slow once again. To wait. There was nothing to wait for, but he had nothing else to do.

There was a creak and clatter above as a door was opened, and slow steps down the stairs. Two people. It would be the guards on their thrice-daily patrol then. If they were lucky, the guards would sweep through, glancing in each cell, then be on their way. But if they were unlucky...

Best to prepare himself for the worst.

He stilled his mind to mirror smoothness, straightened his spine and let his muscles relax. When the door to their cell block opened, he was ready. Whatever they had planned for him today, he would endure.

But the steps halted at the door, uncertain. The guards would not have faltered. What could this be?

“Is someone there?” He asked. It hurt to speak, his vocal chords reverberating against the red lyrium crystals in his throat.

The steps resumed, quick now, splashing through the water on the floor. And then a ghost appeared before him, on the other side of the cell door. The Herald of Andraste, the same, _the exact same_ , as she was when the rift had swallowed her. The Tevinter mage stood behind her. Both flesh and blood, bone and breath, _alive_.

Something akin to an electric shock ran through him, the beating heart of hope coming to life again within him.

“You’re alive?” He whispered. The Herald unlocked his cell, and his hands trembled to touch her, to see if she was truly real. “We saw you die!”

“The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time,” replied the Tevinter. Dorian, yes. That had been his name. “We just got here, so to speak.”

Time magic. So it was true after all. He had run the theory over in his head, and it had seemed sound enough with the increased energy from the Breach. But he had not dared hope that it would be possible to use it. Not once the corruption had begun to course through him.

But now? “Can you reverse the process?” He asked, his voice rushing despite the pain. “You may be able to return and obviate the events of the last year, it may not be too late!”

He felt a fire unrelated to the heat of red lyrium rushing through him. They could be saved, they could _all_ be saved. As he and Cassandra followed the Herald out of the cells, he felt despair lift and resolve take its place.

She, the Herald, was the key. While every choice of his had led to failure, she could turn a defeat into victory. He had to get her out of here, get her back to her own present. If he failed in everything else in his life, he would succeed in this.


	15. Varric: Raconteur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happened all at once, and then lingered. Eventually I had to stop fiddling with it and just let the story go.

     _Here’s what you have to remember: all storytellers are liars. We just tell lies to get closer to the truth, that’s all._

_So any story, any lie, has the author’s truth hidden at the bottom._

* * *

 

 

     He still remembers his first letters. Gripping a lump of charcoal so hard his fingers would be stained black the rest of the day, dragging it across the page, practically carving the letter into existence. He pretended he was one of the Shapers that his brother had told him about, cutting words into the stone itself.

     It had been Bartrand who taught him the letters, who coached him through their shapes. He would sit in the office Bartrand shared with their father (and which, eventually, Bartrand used alone), lying on the stone floor and tracing the lines his brother made on whatever spare bit of parchment they had.

     “This is only the Trade tongue, Varric,” he told him. “When you’re older, I’ll show you _real_ writing. Like this.”

     Bartrand held up a document from the Merchant’s Guild. It was covered in thick, dark lines.

     “These are dwarven runes. _Our_ language. When you’re ready, I’ll teach you.”

     And he had, though by then Varric was impatient. He knew how to write words now, real words. Why were dwarven words more real than Common ones? Why did he have to learn them when only a few other dwarves could read them? He wanted to make stories that everyone could read, and the runes his brother taught him seemed to have little to do with the stories in his head.

     Still, he did learn. Eventually.

 

* * *

 

 

     His early tales were all trash. The characters were flatter versions of him and his brother, painting them as dashing heroes in a harsh and uncaring world (though their true worth would always be recognized by the end). Bartrand was pleased and proud of his little brother for a time. But the more stories Varric brought him, the more annoyed he seemed to get.

     And one day Varric interrupted an important meeting of his (a doctor who had come to check on their mother, though Varric did not know that for a while yet).

     “I wrote a new one, Bartrand!” He’d said. “There’s a dragon swooping down on Kirkwall, but we find this enchanted sword, and then we break the sword in two so we each have one, and then--“

     “Varric!” Bartrand had snapped, grabbing the papers out of his brother’s hands. “Now is not the time! Go and...Just go!”

     So Varric went. And later, though he would never admit it, he cried for a bit in his room. He was only a child, with a sick mother and dead father and an older brother who (he thought) hated him now.

     Bartrand spoke gently to him, later, and apologized. But Varric never showed his brother one of his stories again.

 

* * *

 

 

     Whenever he thought of his mother, he always remembered her as sick in bed. That was what they had told anyone trying to see her on a “bad” day.

     “Mother is sick. She cannot get out of bed today.”

     And young Varric would go check on her, a pale, bloated woman who seemed permanently affixed to the mattress. She would ask for her “medicine”, and Varric would sneak it past Bartrand.

     (He couldn’t forgive himself for that for the longest time. If he had told her “no” at least once, would she had lived for one more day? Two? It eased his conscience a bit when he found out that she’d also been wheedling bottles from the servants. But only a bit.)

     He knew it was wrong. Bartrand had told him often enough. But Mother smiled at him when he brought her medicine. Really, he would have done anything to see his mother smile.

     As she drifted off to sleep again, he would read her his stories. Sometimes she asked for one in particular, her words slurring as her eyes slid closed.

     “It’s almost like dreaming, I think,” she’d told him once in a more lucid moment. “I can see the people and the places when you describe them to me. Sometimes I think I can almost feel the dragon’s fire, little nugget.”

     When Ilsa Tethras was finally, truly sick, Varric spent most of the day looking after her. He would sit by her bed, writing, while she slept. When she woke, he would read her the latest chapter of “The Mercenary’s Price” and give her a small sip of brandy so she would smile.

     Part of him, the foolish character-in-a-story part, thought that if he drug the tale out, if he wrote it well enough that she could become invested in it, maybe she would live. Not forever. Just for a bit longer. Maybe she would want to find out how it ended so badly that if he never ended it, she would just keep going.

     The rest of him, the hard writer-of-the-story part, told him that he was being an idiot. No book could last forever. Eventually you have to end the story and put the book down. The best thing you could do was make sure it was a good ending, at least.

     His mother died before he could write her an ending. She closed her eyes and didn’t wake up, and a few days later she was dead. It wasn’t the resolution he wanted. But it was the one he would have to live with.

 

* * *

 

 

     For a while, he stopped writing. He’d burned “The Mercenary’s Price”, and tried to ignore the dead feeling in his head where the stories had been.

     (Would that have been the space where the Stone Sense grew, if he’d been born in Orzammar?)

     But then he walked into a smithy and met Bianca Davri.

     She’d looked up from the forge, her skin gleaming with sweat, her eyes bright in the dark, smoky room. And then she’d _smiled_ at him.

     He would’ve done anything to see that smile again.

     So when she asked him about the journal tucked away in his room, the sheaves of parchment crammed into his desk, he tried not to get pissy and defensive about it.

     “It’s nothing. Not anymore. Could we talk about this later, when I _don’t_ want to rip your clothes off?”

     “You always want to rip my clothes off,” Bianca replied, laughing as they tumbled onto the bed.

     When he woke up a few hours later, she was sitting at his desk, reading the stacks of crumpled parchment. Varric wanted to get angry a bit, ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. But...he wanted to know if she liked it. What she thought.

     Bianca looked up, and _smiled_ , and said, “This is good, Varric. You should write more.”

     He loved her for that. But he didn’t start writing again, not for a while. It was too much of an _adventure_ , being with Bianca. The words on the page didn’t appeal as much when the real thing had an explosion in her workshop every other week.

     One of the explosions had been particularly bad; a few of the smiths were severely injured, though Bianca herself was fine. An hour after it had happened, she’d already started cleanup and repairs.

     “You’re not even going to take a break?” He asked, lifting a piece of sheet metal off of the floor.

     “What, and lose even _more_ time?” Bianca replied, trying to knock an iron rod out of the wall. It had shot out at an odd angle in the explosion, and she was having trouble. Finally she knocked it loose and bent to pick it up.

     “The thing is, Varric, shit happens. Mistakes happen. You just have to keep working, or you’ll never get anywhere.”

     They were good words, and they stuck with him. Even after her wedding. Even after she left him waiting, with only a crossbow for company. Even after it ended.

     Shit happens. Keep working.

     It had been years since he wrote anything that wasn’t related to the Merchant’s Guild. But the words were still there.

     So he picked up a pen, and began to write.


End file.
